14

by J. T. Ellison

  Eldridge glanced around the room. Four faces stared at her, all a bit disbelieving.

  “What, y’all think I’m out of my mind? Listen, I was kidnapped. At a very inopportune time, mind you. I don’t even know what day it is. So if you’d like to dispense with the bullshit, I’d appreciate it.”

  She sat back in her chair, crossed her arms and glared at them.

  Callahan spoke first. “It’s December 22. Three days until Christmas.”

  Taylor felt the news deep in the pit of her stomach. “Jesus. I was gone for three days? They must have been so worried….”

  Her voice trailed off. A shadow darkened the doorstep to the conference room. Taylor felt the electricity in the room, knew who was standing behind her without turning around. The room grew silent, and she risked a glance.

  Baldwin stood just inside the door, a terrible visage of both joy and pain etched on his haggard features. Their eyes met and they shared a look; it could have been a second, it could have lasted an hour. All Taylor knew was she was safe. She was in his arms before she recalled getting out of the chair. There was no kiss, no words, just arms around each other and a heavy heartbeat. She didn’t know if it was hers or his, but it centered her, grounded her, and she squeezed hard, once. Turning around, she saw the looks on her fellow officers’ faces and realized they were stunned.

  “This is Dr. John Baldwin. FBI. He’s…” She looked over her shoulder at Baldwin.

  “I’m here for Taylor.” He took two strides into the room, held Taylor’s chair, waited for her to sit and get settled, then sat next to her. He reached for her hand and held it with both of his in his lap. He indicated to Eldridge with a jerk of his head.

  “Please, continue. You were saying?”

  Eldridge started to reach across Taylor to shake Baldwin’s hand, then stopped, realizing Baldwin wasn’t going to comply. Instead, he put his finger to his upper lip and tapped.

  “It wasn’t that we didn’t believe you, Lieutenant. You came up against some major muscle and walked away from it. That doesn’t happen. Not with the man we’re dealing with.”

  “You know who’s behind this?”

  “I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

  Taylor was exhausted and famished. She just wanted to collapse and sleep for a week, but she couldn’t. Not yet. There was work to be done. They decided to move across the street, get her some food and continue the discussion. Baldwin had brought a bag for her. She took out a sweater and jeans, her favorite boots and some toiletries. She changed into the clothes before they left, brushed her teeth and hair, thankful for the familiar hominess. The actions gave her new energy.

  The bar across the street from the 108th was nestled in a row house, identical to the buildings on either side except for a red-and-blue-striped awning and small neon sign that read “Dog Pound.”

  Baldwin opened the door for Taylor, and they entered to the strains of Frank Sinatra. Frank was warbling about the way she looked tonight. Taylor was just happy to be in the warm environment and was cheered by the prospect of solid food. Despite the universals of the precinct, this felt more like home.

  The bar was long and mahogany, varnished to within an inch of its life. High café tables stretched the length of the opposite wall. There were a few men, bundled and white-headed, sitting at the far end. They paid them no mind, continued their discussion without turning.

  Baldwin indicated a table by the wall. They sat, and the bartender came around the bar to them with a tired smile.

  They ordered Guinness, sat back and reveled in each other. Baldwin stared at her hungrily, as if he’d gobble her up in one bite if she so much as moved. She felt pinned by his stare and didn’t know what to say. The waitress returned with their beer and left them to their silence.

  “Baldwin,” Taylor began, but the group from the precinct wafted through the door, cutting off her statement. They joined them, settling in, good-natured, spirits high.

  Callahan sat next to Taylor. As Frank started in anew, this time with “Luck Be a Lady,” Callahan leaned in conspiratorially.

  “Just a heads-up, the owner’s obsessed. Sinatra’s the only thing you’ll hear in here tonight. Or any night. It’s the law.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “As a heart attack. You can go look at the jukebox, it’s only got selections from Old Blue Eyes. After a while you won’t even notice.”

  Taylor took a gulp of her beer, rolled her eyes good-naturedly at Baldwin.

  They ordered crisp steak sandwiches, which came smothered in peppers and onions and mozzarella cheese. The smell reminded her too much of the afternoon’s escapades; Taylor had to send hers back and have a new one made. Her roaring appetite was gone, the food tasted liked dust, but she managed to get it in her stomach.

  Despite the fact that there wasn’t a body, the 108th detectives were jubilant when she described the scene, the killing. They recognized her description of the man who called himself Dusty. The knowledge of his past transgressions didn’t make his death any easier.

  Apparently Dusty, known to the police as Dustin Mosko, had been a regular with the sex-crimes unit. Rape, abuse, torture. How a man with his record could possibly be out of jail was astounding, but that was the system for you. Have him serve his time, let him back out onto the street, and pump him full of drugs that would ostensibly satiate his cravings. It was nuts, and apparently no one would be missing Mr. Dusty.

  The other goon Taylor had come in contact with was assumed to be a man called Atlas. A natural-born killer with the size to see his threats to fruition, he was a prolific assassin.

  Both men worked for a shadowy man the Long Island City police knew as L’Uomo; killed in his name. The Man. Of course, they had another name for him. Edward Delglisi. A first-class underworld kingpin. The same name Frank Richardson had dug out of Burt Mars’s records before he ended up dead.

  Running through all the Nashville–New York connections had cemented the clue. Burt Mars was a known commodity to the New York police. The word on their radar was Mars worked for Delglisi, which helped confirm the trail of information Richardson had started before his murder. When Taylor relayed that news, Eldridge had gotten on the phone, ordered Burt Mars brought in for a chat.

  No one had ever seen Delglisi. That in and of itself made Taylor’s events of the past few days of high interest to the New York cops. Though she hadn’t seen his face, she’d become intimately acquainted with his voice. The long, hard tones would stick in her mind for many years to come, she was sure of that, as would that piercing blue stare.

  Something about the whole setup still didn’t feel right to Taylor. She didn’t know anyone named Edward Delglisi. Didn’t remember that name in connection to her family, to Nashville, or anything else she could think of. But he certainly knew her.

  The answers were there; Taylor could feel them lurking in the deepest recesses of her mind. She was just too exhausted to think things through clearly.

  She decided to put it aside for now. To enjoy her freedom. There was plenty of time to figure everything else out. She didn’t even want to start thinking about what she’d missed back in Nashville. Weddings were meant to be rescheduled, right?

  It was a sign, she was sure of that. Though there was no way she was going to bring that one up with Baldwin anytime soon.

  Thirty-Eight

  New York, New York

  Monday, December 22

  10:58 p.m.

  Checking into a hotel in the city was a no-brainer. Neither Taylor nor Baldwin wanted to accept the kindness of the detectives from the 108th, who would have been happy to let them bunk overnight at their homes. Once the debrief was finished, Eldridge had personally driven them across the Queensboro Bridge into Manhattan. Baldwin had called ahead to the W Hotel on Lexington for a single overnight reservation. It was Christmas season, the hotel was booked, but the concierge somehow found a room for them. Eldridge had looked at him strangely for a moment, as if he wanted to ask how Baldwin ha
d that much pull, but changed his mind.

  To be honest, Baldwin would have much rather tossed Taylor on the FBI plane and gotten her home as quickly as possible, but there were too many loose ends to wrap up.

  He glanced at Taylor; she sat in the back of the unmarked car silently, staring off into the night as they crossed the bridge over the East River.

  Baldwin was pleased the W could accommodate him. There was no sense in doing anything less. It wasn’t every day that he got to spend a romantic evening in New York with his bride-to-be. And he enjoyed that he could pull off something to comfort her. He hoped it would comfort her. Jesus, now that he had her back, he didn’t ever want to let her out of his sight again.

  The city was dressed and lit in its Christmas finery, but the weather had turned. Snow was coming, flakes were beginning to compete for space, drifting down carelessly. The sky was dark between the skyscrapers, deep and dirty. Off-white clouds drifted through the murk. Fog crept between the buildings; it felt alive, evil and oppressive. Gotham City, living up to its reputation.

  Despite the gloomy night, the line into Whiskey Blue was down the block. Patrons of the Waldorf-Astoria across the street shook their heads at the trendy grouping of nightlife fashionistas. Heads turned when Taylor and Baldwin got out of the unmarked car, but as soon as it was established that they weren’t anyone famous, the group quickly went back to their own worlds.

  They shook hands with Eldridge, thanked him for the hospitality and made plans to meet for breakfast in the morning. The marbled lobby was warm, the discreet fountain separating the space from the restaurant trickled serenely, and Taylor left Baldwin’s side to stand in front of it, head cocked as she watched the water flow.

  The desk clerk was icily polite, fingers snapping on the keyboard, a room key generated. He asked if there were any special requests, Baldwin declined. No sense advertising who they were to the clerk. They were just another couple who’d had too much to drink in the city and didn’t want to make the long drive back to suburbia.

  He was worried about Taylor. He’d seen the look in her eyes before, a certain detachment, a faraway gaze that indicated she was looking inside herself for answers.

  He’d listened to her talk about the kidnapping ordeal back at the precinct. He cringed when she described the man who had isolated her, threatened her with ultimatums. He felt the anger and fever that consumed her when she explained about breaking the guard’s neck and making her getaway. He knew how she felt about it—that she wasn’t so upset about taking a life as she was at being forced into that corner. Taylor was a tough woman; she knew the risks of her profession well. Murder, mayhem, all were within her reach. She would have been a good operative—able to compartmentalize her emotions, do what was necessary to get the job done and move forward without regret.

  But the hand-to-hand combat, mortal combat, was another beast entirely.

  The key was in his hand now, and he led her to the elevators, distinctly aware that she was restraining herself. He figured the minute that door was shut, a scream would erupt, some sort of loosening of the emotions that tightened her face.

  She stayed silent, watchful, guarded.

  The elevator’s muted ding alerted him that they’d reached their floor. He beckoned to Taylor, motioning her out of the elevator and into the hallway. He counted down the numbered doors—1515, 1509, 1507, this was their room. He inserted the key into the locking mechanism, the light flickered green and the door popped open slightly. He pushed the door, held it for Taylor and entered the suite behind her, letting the door swing shut behind him.

  A short hallway led to the living room, but they didn’t make it that far.

  Taylor was on him before the door lock clicked to let them know they were safely ensconced in the womblike area.

  Her ferocity astounded him. She took his collar in her hands and forced him back against the wall, her mouth hot on his, her hands traveling the length of his body. He was ready in an instant and it seemed to take forever to get her out of her clothes, though he knew that wasn’t the case—he heard something tear just before her smooth skin melted against his.

  His clothes joined hers in a pile on the floor and they were wrapped around each other, fusing, sucking, touching. Baldwin lifted her by the buttocks and swung her around, forcing her back against the wall.

  Taylor was like a wild woman, an animal, starved for attention, starved for food. Wrapping her long legs around his body, she demanded more. She bit into his neck and he thrust against her, her hips melding into his, her back scraping the expensive paper. A painting fell off a foot away, their hurried coupling shaking the very walls. A scream, deep and guttural, emanated from Taylor’s throat as she climaxed, then she was in tears. Baldwin followed suit, lost in her, lost in himself. He came back, realized he had Taylor pinned to the wall so tightly that every breath she took moved his own ribs.

  He smiled at her then, desperate longing coupled with relief. She reflected his look, into his eyes, his soul, naked, hungry again. Lost. So very lost.

  He lifted her, never taking his eyes off hers, navigating the steps through the sitting room, into the bedroom. Still joined, he laid her gently on the bed and moved slightly, the exquisite oneness of them nearly overwhelming him.

  She took, and took, and he gave all he could, sensing somehow that it wouldn’t be enough to exorcise the demons from her soul. They moved in ways they never had, connected deeper than before. He tensed and Taylor urged him forward, deeper, faster, her hands grasping his hips and forcing them to drive harder. He cried out this time, but she was silent, taking. When he caught his breath, he rolled off of her, gathered her in his arms, and held her while she fought the tears.

  The knock on the door started her awake. She was deep in the bed, covers pulled high on her neck, an arm lodged under Baldwin. He slept deeply, untroubled. She thought back to their frantic sex and smiled. That was a whole new level for them, the desperate clawing passion. She enjoyed it, felt a little guilty that a death had caused such furious excitement within her. Comfort, she thought. That’s what I wanted.

  The discreet knocking came again. Baldwin didn’t stir. She slid her arm out from under his neck and stepped into the marble-tiled bathroom, pulling a thick terry-cloth robe off the hook behind the door and shrugging it on. She glanced at the clock—3:48 a.m. Who the hell was knocking on their door at this ungodly hour?

  Picking up Baldwin’s .40, she went to the door, gun pointed down the length of her naked thigh.

  “Yes?”

  “Ma’am, I have a package for you.”

  “It’s nearly four in the morning. Can’t it wait?”

  “No, ma’am. The concierge told me to deliver it personally. I’m looking for Lieutenant Taylor Jackson. That you?”

  She didn’t answer. A communiqué in the middle of the night. She had a brief thought of her mother’s middle-of-the-night phone call, two months ago.

  “Leave the package by the door.”

  “I can’t do that, ma’am. I promised—”

  “Leave it,” she barked. She heard a whispered thump, then footsteps retreating down the hall.

  Opening the door, weapon up, she glanced right, then left. The hallway was appropriately deserted. She reached her left hand out, taking the package by the corner. It was an envelope, padded, one you’d find in any office supply store in the country. Only about the size of a CD. There was a bulky lump in the middle.

  Against her better judgment, she pulled the package inside. With a last look into the hallway, she secured the door, flipping the bolt and slamming the safety lock home.

  “What’s that?”

  She jumped, the deep rumbling of Baldwin’s sleep-strewn voice startling her. It was the first words he’d spoken to her since they’d entered the hotel room several hours earlier. She remembered how it was between them and felt herself blush, then pushed it all away.

  “A package, hand-delivered. Get the concierge on the phone.”

  She
looked at the manila envelope. It had her name and the name of the hotel. Obviously, someone knew they were here.

  Baldwin came back to the hallway. “Concierge said it was delivered by a man about half an hour ago. They ran it through their security checks and an X-ray, said it looked like a cell phone. He didn’t seem concerned, said he felt the source was of pure motive, whatever the hell that means. I’d feel more comfortable if we got the local bureau involved, let them send it through the bomb sniffer.”

  But Taylor had already slit the top of the package, looking inside. There was a cell phone.

  “No way, no how, Taylor. This is definitely going to the lab. You don’t have any idea what they can do with a phone these days….”

  Briiiinnng.

  The phone buzzed in Taylor’s hand. She looked at Baldwin, then back at the phone. Four rings, five, six, seven. Eight. She took a deep breath.

  “If they wanted me dead, they would have done it back at the warehouse.”

  She flipped the phone open and held it to her ear. There was a bit of static, then she heard a voice. “Taylor?”

  “Oh my God. Daddy?”

  The voice rocked Taylor to the core. It had been a long time—three years, since she’d seen him in person. He was dead. Missing. Gone. This tortured, broken man couldn’t possibly be her father. But there was no mistaking the voice. It was his.

  And he was scared.

  “Taylor? Are you there?”

  “Daddy, where are you?”

  “Taylor, I want you to listen to me. You need to do what he says. Just go along with him, sweetheart, and you’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  “Taylor? Are you there?”

  “I’m here, Daddy.”

  “Taylor, I want you to listen to me. You need to do what he says. Just go along with him, sweetheart, and you’ll be fine. I’ll be fine.”

  She looked sharply at Baldwin. Exact words. She stopped speaking. The voice came again.

  “Taylor? Are you there?”